


comfort

by venetianAnarchist



Series: batjokes [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Joker whump, M/M, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:34:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venetianAnarchist/pseuds/venetianAnarchist
Summary: Joker has his coping mechanisms. Batman doesn't like them.





	comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request from a friend of mine. I really genuinely mean it when I say that you shouldn't read this if you're vulnerable to self-harm or suicidal ideology. This could definitely be triggering and I really don't want you guys to have to deal with that. <3

No one had heard from The Joker for days. Anyone else would feel relieved, grateful. Maybe he’d crawled away to die somewhere. Maybe he’d never come back again.

But Bruce knew better. And he was not naïve enough to believe Joker would take a break. He’d escaped from Arkham, as he was wont to do, but that wasn’t the worrying part. Gotham should have known by now, from experience after agonising experience, that Joker escaped when he had a plan in mind.

Sometimes, it was only a matter of hours before something was burning and people were dead.

That was normal, it was routine.

This was not.

Joker had been missing for six days. No sightings, no crimes, no word from anxious enemies. Batman had scoured the streets, hoping that maybe he’d catch the clown unawares and have him locked up before he tried anything.

Now, he wasn’t so concerned about preventing damage. Because something was wrong, indescribably wrong. The Joker would not lay low because he wanted a nice relaxing break from causing mayhem. The Joker may have been a madman, but he did everything with purpose, even when the purpose was to appear as though he didn’t have one.

Most of the time, his purpose was to get Batman’s attention.

This time, he had it. Because Bruce was waiting with baited breath, the television never left Gotham’s twenty-four-hour news station, and he kept his phone on him at all times.

He was waiting. And the worst part was that he wasn’t waiting because he needed to be prepared, he was waiting because he worried.

For Gotham? No.

He was worried for the Joker. Worried because it had been over a year since he’d genuinely had no idea where the other man was. Worried because this was unusual, even by the clown’s standards. Worried, because try as he might to deny it, there was something deeply and intrinsically reassuring about going up against Joker.

Maybe it was the familiarity, maybe it was the rush of adrenaline that he couldn’t find anywhere else, maybe it was because they were two sides of Harvey Dent’s coin. It hardly mattered. Bruce needed to locate The Joker, before he drove himself up the wall.

 

* * *

 

The Narrows had a particular smell about them that made the hair on the back of Bruce’s neck stand on end.

They reeked of despair and poverty and neglect. Somehow, he knew that if he was going to find Joker anywhere, it would be here.

The cover of darkness was a welcome asset, but there was something distinctly miserable about the lack of street lights. Or the lack of _working_ street lights.

His heavy boots crunched over broken glass as he crossed the street, noting the low howling of the wind above. It hardly reached him down here, sheltered and claustrophobic as it was.

An abandoned apartment building rose ahead of him, and he ducked into the alley that ran alongside it. He doubted he would have any trouble with the front door, but he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to himself. People around these parts tended to have mixed feelings about The Batman.

He entered through the fire escape, slipping inside and allowing the rusted door to swing closed on itself.

Inside, everything was dark and creaking. Mildew and dust, boarded windows, holes in the walls. It was exactly the kind of place he’d set out to find.

He knew Joker. He knew him better than Bruce liked to admit to himself. And when he’d received word from a rather unreliable source of information, in the form of a homeless man, that Joker used to squat in the buildings along this street, he’d decided to investigate.

And investigate he did. The second floor was completely abandoned save for empty beer cans and graffiti, and things were in a similar state of disarray on the third, and the fourth.

It wasn’t until he noticed light spilling from the cracks in the ceiling that he felt as though this was at all worthwhile.

He headed up the stairs, wooden and creaking, as quietly as he could. The light appeared to be coming from the fifth floor, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. The armoured plates of his suit felt heavy and cumbersome as he tried to be stealthy, but the state of the building and his own rising anxiety made everything seem louder, more intense.

He followed the light source, turning around corners and low-hanging sheets of fabric left behind by squatters and Gotham’s rampant homeless population. Ahead, behind a faintly red-painted door, pushed slightly ajar, was the light.

He figured this room was once the bedroom of a very cheaply-build luxury apartment. It probably would have looked quite nice, back in the day. Now everything in the Narrows was faded and crumbling, termite-infested and coated with dust. It was exactly the kind of place one would go to brood, if one was a homicidal clown with no real discernible home nor loved ones.

There was one thing of which Bruce could be sure; someone was here. But as he approached, he began to wonder if they were conscious, or even alive. Because nothing stirred, and no sound could be heard aside from the distinctive burn of an oil lamp.

The scent filled his nostrils as he took a deep breath and pushed open the door, readying himself for anything and _still_ feeling his heart plunge into his gut the second he adjusted to the light.

He had lucked out, that was for sure.

Or maybe this was the opposite of luck.

Joker was unconscious, sprawled out on an old motheaten mattress. The first thing Bruce noted was the lack of makeup. His usual greasepaint and lipstick were nowhere to be seen. He was still pale, and the knotted scars were still prominent, but the clown-like façade was gone.

He wore Arkham-issued pants and a grey top. His hair was shorter, washed out and unkempt, the green clinging to the tips. An empty needle and a broken bottle of gin lay beside him.

And then Bruce noticed the scars.

Not _those_ scars. Not this time. His wrists were a mess, littered with messy lacerations and dried blood. It continued up from his wrists to his forearms, past his elbows, receding where his sleeves lay.

Bruce had seen all sorts of wounds. He’d seen bullet-holes, jagged gashes from knives and daggers and the occasional sword. He’d never really come face to face with this sort of damage.

Because this was very obviously self-inflicted. With an unsteady hand and a desperate sort of concentration.

“Joker?”

The man didn’t stir. Bruce felt like he was going to be sick.

He crouched beside the limp and seemingly lifeless form. He went to check Joker’s pulse, paused when he regarded the state of his wrists, and then pressed a finger to the crook of his neck instead. It was there, steady and strong, making Bruce exhale loudly.

He was alive. That was a good start.

“Prince Charming, is that you?”

Bruce nearly jumped, head snapping around to look at the other man’s face. He was awake, squinting blearily through dark eyes. Long lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, and he let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh.

“Joker, can you hear me?” Bruce felt as though his heart was about to pound a hole in his chest.

“Yup,” came the response, rasping and shaky but otherwise entirely in-character. Bruce moved a hand behind his back and helped him sit up, noting the heady warmth through Joker’s shirt. It felt like he was running a fever.

There was a long moment in which they looked at each other. Joker’s fingers twitched, and Bruce watched as the clown regarded the state of his wrists. The sick feeling returned, twisting his intestines into knots.

“This is a _private_ resort, Bats.”

“What have you done to yourself?”

There must have been a tremor in his voice, because Joker laughed at him. Or he tried, but all he managed was a low, rumbling chuckle. He shook with it, and Bruce tried not to think about how skinny and weak he appeared. How he could feel Joker’s spine through his shirt, far too prominent to be healthy.

“Nothing, nothing,” Joker muttered, rolling his shoulders nice and slow, “nothingnothingnothing…”

Bruce went to say something else, but his tongue felt dry and tangled, and no words came. Instead, he unclipped his utility belt, sat back on his haunches, and allowed himself a minute to search for any medical supplies he might have on him.

Joker said nothing, and Bruce felt a great deal of relief for it.

He located a roll of bandages, and cursed himself for not having any antiseptic. Squatting in a place like this with open wounds was the dumbest thing Bruce could imagine. Dried and darkened blood had seeped into the mattress, and Bruce could see it now that Joker was sitting up.

The clown remained disarmingly quiet, staring absently at Bruce. Every now and then, his fingers would twitch, drum a rhythm against his thighs. And he’d wince, because the action would pull at the cuts up his arms, and Bruce had to grit his teeth to prevent nonsense words of reassurance from escaping.

He took Joker’s hand, and Joker let him, and Bruce bandaged him up in silence. When one arm was done, he moved on to the other, and still nothing passed between them but long looks and soft breathing.

He finished, and taped the loose ends of the bandages in place. He had a feeling that Joker wouldn’t care if they all fell off again, but to his credit, he didn’t mess with them.

Bruce let a beat pass, watched Joker flexing his wrists and hissing under his breath.

“You did that to yourself,” he commented, at long last. And it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Batman wasn’t stupid, he could see the evidence. He could see the pocketknife in Joker’s waistband when he went to stretch his arms.

“And you dress like a bat,” Joker drawled, “we all have our vices, see.”

“That’s not healthy.”

Joker barked out a laugh, rough and unkind. “You dress. Like. A. _Bat_. Pot, kettle.”

Bruce frowned at him, let the exhaustion and concern show on his features. “I don’t know who you really are, under the war paint and the theatrics,” he started, earning an irritated twitch of the clown’s scarred lips, “but you have to know that what you’re doing isn’t okay. There’s counselling for that. People get help when they want to hurt themselves.”

“I’m not a teenage girl, Bats. Though I could be, if that’s your thing,” he waggled his eyebrows. Bruce could see the deflection a mile off. “Wanna play, uh, therapist?”

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” Joker deadpanned.

Bruce really didn’t doubt it.

He stood, stretched his legs. His mind was a mess of things he could say, things that would effectively be falling on deaf ears. Why did it matter if Joker wanted to cut himself? He also wanted to kill people, and he couldn’t be persuaded out of that, either.

Bruce took a step towards the door, shut his eyes for a long moment. He couldn’t take this onboard. He couldn’t let it be his responsibility. His problem.

“It’s uhh, it’s a coping mechanism.”

Bruce paused. He swallowed thickly, tried to fight off the urge to turn around and press for more. Why should he care? Why _did_ he care?

Ultimately, it was a losing battle. “Why?”

Joker paused, regarded Bruce closely as the other man moved to sit again, by the end of the mattress this time. Joker seemed to curl in on himself a little. “Calms the nerves,” he admitted, quieter this time. He cracked a smile, but it didn’t feel genuine in the least.

Bruce was good at dodging his attempts at derailing. He’d been doing it for a long time.

“There are better ways of coping with that sort of thing.”

Joker looked at him like he was stupid, then gestured to the needle, the bottle. Bruce suddenly realised what the feverish vibe was. He wasn’t sick, he’d been shooting up. Somehow, he found it even more alarming. Because Joker and drugs didn’t go together, not in his mind. Then again, he was a man. A man with flawed coping mechanisms. “Duh, Bats.”

“Not what I meant, Joker,” he grated out, letting a sigh escape.

Joker clenched his jaw, chewed his lower lip.

“Ever try exercising for the sake of exercising?” He paused, gestured vaguely at Joker, “Or even eating? You could obviously do with it. Much more than heroin, that’s for sure.”

“Are you tryna give me life advice or something? Wow, I reckon I’d rather go to ol’ Two-Face for that. At least he’s got a _method_.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “I’m taking you back to Arkham. You can get help there.”

Now, Joker really laughed. Long and hearty and _vicious_. He reminded Bruce of a shark. “Help? Fuck, you’re funny.”

Bruce growled low in his throat. “You’re deflecting. All you do is deflect.”

Joker’s lips twitched. “Whadaya want me to say?” When Bruce didn’t respond, he continued, “I mean it, Bats. Tell me what you want, and I’ll get all intro-spec- _tive_ , m’kay?”

Bruce wet his lips, really thought about how to word it. He didn’t need to set the clown off again. “I want you tell me the truth.” He paused again, watched as Joker raised an eyebrow at him. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Your arms look like you’ve been mauled. I deserve some sort of explanation. And where have you been? Why did you come here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“Joker.”

There was a long moment in which Bruce was sure Joker would continue to make fun of him.

But to his surprise, and probably Joker’s, too, he didn’t.

“Needed to re- _cup_ -er-ate.”

“And you do that by cutting yourself with a pocketknife and going on drug binges?”

Joker cracked a tired smile. It looked genuine this time. He didn’t appear to have an answer to that one. “Can I tell you a story?”

Bruce really should have said no, but he gave a nod.

“Right, so there’s this kid… Real scrawny kid, right. Doesn’t get fed, doesn’t get loved, et-cet-era. ‘N his folks don’t really give much of a fuck. Maybe they’re not around, I dunno. His only friend, see, is a, ahh… Is a pocketknife. Nice little pocketknife. Engraved an’ everything…”

“You’re the kid.”

“Shut up, shutupshutupshutup! I’m not done,” he cleared his throat, hands twitching like they wanted to join in on the story, but failed to do so. “He cuts and burns ‘cause it brings him back to reality, it’s reliable and easy to _understand_ … You get it?”

Bruce wasn’t sure that he did. Joker wasn’t meeting his eyes. There was a vulnerability to him that made Bruce wary, because it was unfamiliar, and because he knew this was an emotional moment and he didn’t know what the correct thing to say was. What was Joker looking for?

Maybe he was looking for understanding. He’s there, pushed into a corner at the head of his mattress, twitchy and bandaged and strikingly unusual. Somehow, the lack of makeup only served to make him more noticeable.

It was because Joker was nice to look at. Despite the scars, he was pretty, he had an attractive face. He would look so much better, if he took care of himself, Bruce thought. The sort of man that would have Bruce admiring him from across the bar, and thinking, _maybe he could take a man to bed_ , if he’d had enough liquid courage.

Maybe he could take The Joker to bed.

That was a bad line of thought.

“I’m not going to take you back to Arkham.”

There was a long pause, palpable between them. “Uh, I’m not complaining…”

Bruce looked him in the eye, tried to hold that acidy, hyper-focused gaze. “It wouldn’t be good for you. You need food, and rest. I… Can’t, with a clear conscience, leave you there to fend for yourself.”

This honesty thing was difficult, but there was some relief in expressing himself. Joker looked exhausted, but incredibly relieved. It filled Bruce with something akin to hope.

“Come ‘ere for a sec. Wanna try something,” Joker murmured, and Bruce had to play it over in his head again to make sure he’d heard correctly. Apparently, he had, because Joker was beckoning.

In what was possibly the most stupid move he’d made all day, Bruce moved closer, closer, until he was right in front of the madman. And Joker looked at him with a considerate expression, before moving in and suddenly throwing his arms around Batman’s shoulders.

At first, he thought he was being attacked. Strangled, maybe, or stabbed from behind. But there was no pain, and Joker felt all tense and shivery against him.

It was a hug, Bruce realised, embarrassingly late, and he drew the other man a little bit closer, moving on default.

It felt warm, and comforting, and he allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. Joker clung to him, smelling like Gotham, with his hair slightly damp where it’s pressed against Bruce’s cheek.

And then suddenly he remembered the pocketknife, and he moved as swiftly as he could, nudging the shirt out of the way and snatching the knife from Joker’s waistband. He felt the man stiffen immediately, heard the soft growl bubbling up beneath the surface.

“Don’t,” Joker managed, but Bruce had already pocketed it, and he continued to hold him against himself even as the clown began to thrash about in vain.

The fit of anger lasted no more than twenty seconds, because Bruce was strong and rested and well-fed. Joker was none of those things, and he wound up limp, the fight having left him. He sat there, practically pulled into Bruce’s lap, holding on for dear life.

When the shaking began, Bruce was immediately aware of the cause.

Joker was crying, soft intakes of breath and sniffling sounds. His shoulders shook, and he felt delicate in Bruce’s arms, nothing like the wild beast that he was used to fighting, tooth and claw, on the rooftops of Gotham city.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and the hitch in Joker’s breathing told him that the other heard, even if he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge anything. The vulnerability was what really got Bruce. The vulnerability and the humanity.

He knew, in his heart of hearts, that this didn’t really change anything. That the drugs and the booze and the exhaustion had contributed to this emotional meltdown.

But did that really matter?

Bruce didn’t think it did. He was prepared to sit back and to hold Joker, until he really came back to himself, and he was prepared to face whatever did come back.

Because he was Batman, sure. But also because he was Bruce Wayne, the lonely child who’d lost his parents, and a shoulder to cry on could be vital, Bruce thought, for survival.


End file.
